


the slow descent

by pennyofthewild



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Failed attempt at humor, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Underage Drinking, spoilers for chapter 188
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>On the first day of university volleyball practice, Oikawa Tooru walks into the gymnasium, sees Ushijima Wakatoshi standing in the middle of the court, immediately turns on his heel and walks back out.</p>
</blockquote><p>If you can't beat them, join them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i slipped, and you fell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_delusional_fan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_delusional_fan/gifts).



> dear cactus,
> 
> i'm terribly sorry to inflict this fic on you. my list of ~~excuses~~ explanations is long and unwieldy; however, the bottom line is! this is not a very good fic, and probably does not satisfy any of your (perfectly reasonable; please don't misunderstand) prompts, because i am a fail of a person ~~and also the most unfunny human being on the planet~~.
> 
> nevertheless, i sincerely hope you find something to like in it, long and boring as it is.
> 
>    
>  **Warnings + Notes**
> 
> 1) i seem to write a lot about drinking for a person who has never had alcohol ever. as mentioned in the tags, the involved characters are (as per Japanese law, where the legal age of drinking is 20) underage.
> 
> 2) please note that there is a scene that can be interpreted as an (interrupted) attempt at assault (not by any canonical characters). it is nongraphic, and so i felt it was unnecessary to tag; however, should you, as a reader, feel a tag is necessary for any reason please let me know and i will add it immediately. thank you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > It takes three practices – that is, the rest of the week – for Ushijima to realize just how good Oikawa is at holding grudges.
> 
> it's a long way to the bottom. 

 

 

On the first day of university volleyball practice, Oikawa Tooru walks into the gymnasium, sees Ushijima Wakatoshi standing in the middle of the court, immediately turns on his heel and walks back out.

Ushijima, having glanced at the door at the right moment, sees this (minor) event occur purely by chance (it’s not like he was looking out for Oikawa, don’t be ridiculous). He has to admit to himself, if only in passing, that he’d expected something of the sort, but had still been (momentarily) taken aback (not that it showed), by the grim adamancy with which Oikawa had executed the gesture.

Nobody else in the gym – it is packed, with returning seniors and new players alike – seems to have noticed, however, and Oikawa stays away for the rest of practice. Ushijima, deciding his time is better spent not mulling over things out of his control, puts Oikawa’s actions out of his mind – .

After all, he figures, Oikawa will have to show up for practice eventually. Ushijima will just wait until he does.

 

Ushijima’s first university offer arrived in his parents’ mailbox after the interhigh of his second year. Now, in any other student’s case, an offer this early might have been considered jumping the gun, on the university’s part, but this was Ushijima Wakatoshi, and so it was, in fact, an act of circumspection. Ushijima’s mother spent the next week after the letter arrived visiting neighbors, the envelope tucked into her purse, reaching in, at opportune moments, for something-or-the-other and bringing out the letter ‘on accident’.

As it turned out, that school was not the only one with this idea. When the time came to decide which of the offers he would accept, there were so many as to be overwhelming. After pondering the matter for some time, Ushijima determined a methodical approach would be best. He drew up tables with pros and cons, weighted each item appropriately, and applied the following equation: ∑(advantage*weight) - ∑(disadvantage*weight) to each school in turn.

Distilling complex information into a single number was satisfying. However, Ushijima could not help but feel as though there was something crucial missing – and in the end,  the critical factor turned out to be a chance encounter with an old opponent in the convenience store a block down from Ushijima’s house.

 

Oikawa lasts longer than Ushijima thought he would – an entire week elapses before he comes to practice again.

By this time, Ushijima has (per his account) nearly forgotten about Oikawa. On Monday morning, then, he is almost surprised to see Oikawa, standing by the net, talking to Miyamae-senpai, the current regular setter. Oikawa does not notice Ushijima, and so Ushijima goes to change and start warm-up drills.

Halfway through his warm-up, Ushijima hears a pointed cough, and looks up to find Oikawa standing by him, arms crossed over his chest. He looks exactly the same as he did when Ushijima saw him last, after the Spring High preliminaries: fancy brown hair curling just so over suspiciously narrowed brown eyes, lips pressed tightly together. Ushijima supposes it really had been too much to hope he might’ve buried the hatchet he’s been single-handedly lugging around all these years.

“Hello, there, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa says, falsely-cheery, a nasty inflection in his voice when he pronounces his ridiculous version of Ushijima’s name.

Ushijima gives him a polite nod. “Oikawa.” Briefly, he considers adding a pleasantry, like, _you’re looking well_ , or _it’s good to see you_ , but shelves the idea as a bad one.  Oikawa has always misinterpreted everything Ushijima has said to him.

“So,” Oikawa says, merrily, though his eyes are piercing, “I suppose you tired of waiting for Mohammad to come to the mountain, so you brought the mountain to him instead.”

Ushijima blinks. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

Oikawa laughs. It is a sharp, mirthless sound. He says, like Ushijima is the biggest idiot he has ever had the misfortune to encounter, “Of course you don’t.”

 

The chance encounter happened like this: it was March, and Ushijima was standing in the boxed mixes aisle, contemplating the various brands of _hayashi_ rice mix on sale when a vaguely familiar voice said, from behind him,

“Aren’t they all the same, anyway?”

Ushijima looked up to find Iwaizumi Hajime looking at him with a bemused expression on his face, carrying what looked like all of the milk bread in the store. After he’d overcome his surprise at being voluntarily approached – while Iwaizumi had never (unlike Oikawa) openly expressed any dislike for Ushijima it’d always been obvious he was not particularly fond of him either – Ushijima said, rather stiffly,

“No, they are not,” because – you must understand –  he doesn’t kid about _hayashi_ rice.  

Iwaizumi’s mouth had twitched, though Ushijima could not see what it was he’d found funny. He did not say anything else, for several moments, and Ushijima thought he was going to leave him alone, but then Iwaizumi  said, indicating the milk bread,

“Oikawa and I are studying for final exams. It’s my turn to get snacks.”  

Iwaizumi had never struck Ushijima as a particularly chatty sort of person, so Ushijima wondered if there was some unseen motive behind this sudden friendliness. “Okay.”

Seemingly undeterred by the lack of reciprocity, Iwaizumi said, “so, have you decided on where you’re going? For university?”

Ushijima said, “not yet,” and then, to be polite, “and you?”

“Too many choices, huh,” Iwaizumi had laughed, and continued, “I’m staying in Miyagi. Oikawa’s going to Tokai. I bet they sent you an offer, too.”   He said this last with a strange, undecipherable expression on his face, and the conversation had ended soon after.

 

***

 

It takes three practices – that is, the rest of the week – for Ushijima to realize just how good Oikawa is at holding grudges. Insurmountably good. Better than anyone else Ushijima knows. He is almost as good at holding grudges as he is at setting, which is saying something: he was Miyagi Prefecture’s Best Setter Award recipient four years in a row.

“I can’t believe this is _news_ to you,” says Tendou, over the phone, the weekend after Ushijima’s first disastrous week with Oikawa in practice. Ushijima is not usually one for telephone conversations; it is a mark of how trying his week has been that he has called Tendou at all. He can hear the loud, pulsing bassline of discotheque music through the phone, and wonders how Tendou had heard his ringtone, “that guy’s been holding a grudge against you since grade school.”

“I thought he might grow out of it,” Ushijima says, considering his uniform jersey, draped over the back of his desk-chair, with the words USHIWAKA SUCKS scrawled across it in thick, black permanent marker. Ushijima has washed it three times already. The kanji has not faded in the slightest.

Tendou laughs, loud, raucous, in Ushijima’s ear. “Buddy, you’ve always given Oikawa Tooru wayyy more credit than he deserves, you know? There’s a lot more than _respect_ going on there, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Ushijima says, more brusquely than he’d intended.

“ _Senpai_!!” a loud, garbled voice shouts on Tendou’s side of the line. Ushijima recognizes it as Goshiki’s, “try this one, it really hits you where it _counts_ – ”

There is a momentary pause, the sounds of a scuffle, and then Tendou returns to his phone.

“Sorry, Wakatoshi, gotta go,” he says, sounding breathless, and cuts the line before Ushijima can ask how he can be so irresponsible as to bring an underclassman to a club that sells alcoholic drinks when they’re _both_ underage.

 

The thing is: Oikawa is not content with childish pranks like defiling Ushijima’s jersey and filling Ushijima’s locker with shaving cream. He is a very thorough sort of person, a trait that is highly admirable within the confines of competitive sport. Outside those confines, however, this characteristic means he does his utmost to find other, no-less subtle, ways to make his displeasure known.

Take, for example, now – practice has just adjourned for the day, the day’s seniors-vs-juniors practice match having come to an end ten minutes ago. The majority of the players are still cooling down, Ushijima among them. Meanwhile, Oikawa, who had walked off court a while back, is just now returning, a pen and his black palm-sized notebook in hand. Ushijima is ambivalent about this notebook, because:

 On the one hand, it is an excellent example of why Oikawa is the best setter in their year. On the other – See, this notebook is chock-full of useful information on every player on the team – or, on nearly every player; the one notable exception being, of course, Ushijima.

This is because one of the strategies Oikawa has adopted is (he is quite bad at it; see Exhibit A, below) pretending Ushijima does not exist.

“Kuroo-chan,” Oikawa calls, overly-cheerful, “I wanted to ask you a question or two.” Across the floor, their fellow first-year middle blocker straightens out of his stretch. His face says, _again_ , with such transparency Ushijima has to bite back a rare urge to laugh.

Oikawa walks close by Ushijima on his way to him, saying, almost flirtatiously, “just making sure we’re syncing properly,” and he gives Ushijima a pointed look as he passes him, as if to say, _guess who I’m_ not _asking_ (Exhibit A).

Ushijima barely refrains from rolling his eyes, as the gesture would be very unlike him. Oikawa comes to a stop in front of Kuroo, saying,

“So about that last line shot,” in a loud, radiant voice that is clearly meant to carry.

Kuroo gives Ushijima a knowing look over Oikawa’s head. Ushijima is not usually the best at reading people, but Kuroo’s _sort yourselves out before I do it for you_ is too unambiguous to miss.

As he leaves the gym, Ushijima thinks, in passing, that while he does not scare easily, Kuroo’s smile comes rather close to terrifying.

 

Despite Kuroo’s thinly-veiled threat – the problem is, he is not the only one who has caught on – no real changes take place on the Operation: Vendetta Against Ushijima front. After the first week, Ushijima grows almost immune. Eventually, Oikawa’s acts of retribution recede to minor background noise, superimposed by a vague sort of regret that things did not proceed in the direction he wanted every time he sees Oikawa on, and off, the court.

A month into term, Ushijima has begun to think this one-sided battle will continue indefinitely, when abruptly, an unexpected development throws things off-course.

 

***

 

It is a weekend night – Friday – and Ushijima is breaking character for an evening, having allowed himself to be dragged to an _izakaya_ by a group of fellow first-years. He is not entirely sure who the fake IDs are courtesy of, and even less sure who it was got his picture (it is, of course, a very unflattering picture, in accordance with the universal rule that All Official Photographs Must Suck).   

What he is sure of is that breaking character is less fun than he thought it might be: he is currently parked at the bar counter with something suspicious and fruity, and he is alone. His yearmates have divided off into smaller groups, in the manner of a clump of filamentous spirogyra, fragmenting into its many lesser parts – something Ushijima would have foreseen, had he given the matter any thought.

Apparently, it is karaoke night at the _izakaya_. The band’s lead vocalist, a local talent named Yamamoto Hiro – who is singing backup when he is not dragging people onto the stage – picks the songs out by pulling out titles from a top hat. The whole setup has the feel of a loud, musical auction. The current would-be songbirds are a pair of twins – both look like they are barely out of high school – with dyed blond hair and undercuts going through a rendition of Glay’s _Beloved_.

Ushijima sighs, takes another cautionary sip of his terrible drink, and wishes he were back on campus, practicing.

In the corner nearest the stage, Oikawa is holding court. He looks particularly animated – at home in a way Ushijima only ever is in the gym.  He tosses back his drink with careless, practiced ease, the glass glinting in the _izakaya’s_ dim ambient light. Ushijima can hear him laugh even over the crowd.

 

Later – Ushijima is not sure how much later, but the ice cubes in his glass have melted into his half-finished drink – Kuroo comes by, props a hip against the bar counter and looks down at Ushijima with something like amusement in his heavy-lidded eyes. He is accompanied by a tall, silver-haired, green-eyed boy who has the look of putty stretched too thin.

“Man, Ushiwaka,” Kuroo says, smiling around the annoying nickname, “you really are just like an old man. Were you born middle-aged?”

After three years of high school with Tendou, Ushijima can’t say jokes like this faze him anymore.

“What do you want?” he says, noncommittally.

Kuroo’s companion whispers something in Kuroo’s ear. It is hard to hear over the noise, but Ushijima thinks he might’ve heard “pot”, “kettle”, and “black”. Kuroo elbows him in the stomach, responds to his “ow, senpai,” with an unfeeling, “shut up, Lev, you’re not supposed to be here.”

Pot, kettle, black, Ushijima thinks, and tries not to smile. He’s had enough of breaking character for a whole year, at least. Kuroo turns back to him. “Anyway,” Kuroo says, “I didn’t come over here to make small talk. He sets his elbow on the counter, leans in close. “Our mutual friend is in a bit of trouble, I think,” he says, conspiratorially, and tilts his head at the far side of the bar, “I think you might want to bail him out.”

The mutual friend, Ushijima sees, looking in the direction Kuroo has indicated, is Oikawa, who, at some point during the night, left his table and is now sitting at the bar counter. He seems to be having a conversation with an older man – Ushijima guesses mid-twenties; he has a lip piercing and is wearing a leather jacket – but on second glance –

Ushijima supposes he is quite good-looking, in a graceless sort of way.

“None of my business,” he says, shortly, ignoring the slight sinking feeling in his chest. Oikawa is perfectly capable of handling himself. Besides, Oikawa has any number of friends still in the _izakaya_ – he can see one of their other wing spikers over by the stage – who will step in if Oikawa needs the help.

“Not your style, huh,” Kuroo sounds as though Ushijima has done him a personal affront, “here I thought you were a perfect fit for a shounen manga’s protagonist.”

Ushijima says, before he can think better of it, “I don’t think shounen manga is the genre you have in mind.” He can feel his face heat up almost immediately. He hopes the lighting covers up his embarrassment.

Kuroo laughs. “Well, well. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

He sounds more appreciative than mocking, but Ushijima still bristles, crosses his arms over his chest. Behind Kuroo, Lev is attempting to slip into the crowd; Kuroo clamps a warning hand around his wrist, gives Ushijima probing look.

“Why don’t you go?”

Kuroo shrugs, looking apologetic. It is, Ushijima thinks, an entirely contrived gesture. “Well, you know,” Kuroo says, and claps Lev on the back, “I have to take this guy home before he gets into more trouble. Sorry, Ushiwaka-chan, but it’s on you.”

Before Ushijima can protest further, Kuroo has given him a parting wink and steered Lev towards the exit. Within moments, they disappear into the crowd.

 

Up close, it is obvious that Oikawa is trashed. His eyes are out of focus, face flushed and shiny with sweat. Ushijima hears him say _not sure about this_ and _I’m not comfortable_ – but his solicitor does not seem to want to take the words at face value; he slides the hand resting on Oikawa’s knee farther up his thigh –

Ushijima taps Oikawa on the shoulder. “Hey. I’ve got a phone call for you. Iwaizumi’s been trying to contact you; is your cellphone on vibrate?”

Oikawa jumps, looks up at him so fast Ushijima is sure he put a crick in his neck. “Ushiwaka-chan,” he breathes, and reaches out to catch Ushijima’s arm in a vice-like grip. “I’ll take the call outside; it’s too loud in here.”

Ushijima ignores the look Oikawa’s erstwhile companion is giving him, and instead helps Oikawa up, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ll be coming back?” the man gives Oikawa a winning smile.

An irrational sort of anger rises in Ushijima’s throat, closing it off.  “No,” he says, sharply, before Oikawa can reply, and levels his most vicious glare at the man before maneuvering Oikawa out of the _izakaya_.

 

There is a park in the lot in front of the _izakaya_. It is fifteen minutes past two, and the park is mostly empty apart from a few loiterers, smoking cigarettes or making phone calls. Ushijima deposits Oikawa in one of the swings and opens his cab hire application. It is too late for the trains to be running.

Oikawa wobbles; Ushijima sits in the swing next to him and keeps a hand on the chain holding up Oikawa’s seat.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi, knight in shining armor,” Oikawa mumbles, while Ushijima is scrolling through his app, “I could’ve dealt with him myself, you know.”

His eyes are wide, fixed on Ushijima’s face, luminous brown in the glow from the streetlamps, irises rimmed with silver.

Ushijima swallows, presses his lips together. “I know.”

Oikawa nods, slowly. He does not avert his gaze. Ushijima feels his face heat up again, under the weight of his scrutiny. He’s glad Oikawa is too far gone to notice. A little wrinkle appears between Oikawa’s eyebrows.

“Did you know, your eyes are hazel,” he declares, suddenly, and leans in, close. Ushijima can smell the alcohol – sour, fruity – on his breath, and see the individual lashes casting dark spiky shadows on his cheeks. “I'd never noticed before, but look! They’ve got a little green in them.”

 

And then he coughs, and proceeds to throw up on Ushijima’s shoes.

 

***

 

(tbc)


	2. ends are a sort of beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > He hadn’t thought silences – or anything, really – could get comfortable, around Oikawa. Miracles do happen, it seems. Oikawa is capable of growing up. Maybe Ushijima can learn to let go. 
> 
> but growing old is optional.

 

Saturday is the university volleyball team’s off day.  According to the coach’s weekly mantra – he played on Japan’s Olympics team, once – it is important for all athletes – amateur or otherwise – to take some time out  for the “three Rs” – rest, relax, and allow their bodies to repair the damage caused by repetitive strenuous exercise.  Ushijima’s high school coach had a similar, oft-repeated mantra.

It never stopped Ushijima from coming in to the gym, of course.

On this particular Saturday – the Saturday after the disastrous night in the _izakaya_ – Ushijima is running late. He’d woken with a hangover – a terrible way to wake up; he’s not sure he wants to repeat the experience – and spent the better part of an hour throwing up his insides. Another experience to add to the list of things he does not want to repeat. The whole ordeal has thoroughly convinced Ushijima that he doesn’t want to drink again, ever.

At the gym, Ushijima stops by the lockers first. He fits his gym bag into his locker, and then wheels one of the volleyball carts out of the locker room and onto the court. Ushijima is not the only player with a downtime practice routine. Over the last month, he’s become acquainted with several of the other guys who use the gym on the weekend – mostly seniors facing the impending threat of retirement.

Surprisingly, however, Ushijima rarely runs into any of them – by some unspoken agreement, they stagger their practice times throughout the day, so there are, at most, only a few people on the court at any one time. Ushijima’s usual time slot is from six to nine – _ante meridiem_. Today, he is walking in at half-past ten.  

Unforgivable, Ushijima thinks, pushing the cart over to an empty net, sneakers squeaking against the gym floor. His head still hurts, despite the two pills of Tylenol he’d taken earlier. In all honesty, he isn’t sure he _wants_ to go through his grueling routine right now. He finds himself wishing he had an excuse not to.  He holds the ball to his nose, breathes in the familiar, aromatic leather.

“Practicing on your day off? You never struck me as the reckless sort, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Ushijima is strangely unsurprised to hear Oikawa’s voice, as if he’d known he was going to run into Oikawa today, as dictated by the laws of whatever terribly-written script he seems to be following lately. Oikawa is back to sounding as he usually does – bright, clear, with an undercurrent of cutting amusement lurking in his tone – very different from the hoarse slur of the night before.

Ushijima turns. Oikawa is standing by the net, holding a ball tucked against his hip, bright-eyed and fresh-faced, smiling. Of course, _he_ doesn’t look as though he woke up with a splitting headache.

Oikawa’s eyebrow hitches up. “Oh dear,” he says, voice laced with mock concern, “you don’t look so good, Ushiwaka-chan. Terrible morning?”

It doesn’t sound like a question, so Ushijima does not answer. The silence stretches into something vaguely uncomfortable – and it is on the tip of Ushijima’s tongue to say, _what do you want_ , _Oikawa_ , when Oikawa sighs, and his shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Ushijima feels his head spin in a way that has nothing to do with his headache. He looks sounds as if the words have left a sour taste in his mouth – but it is an apology. Ushijima wonders if he’s misheard –

“I, ah,” Oikawa looks doggedly away from Ushijima’s face. “I wanted to say – thank you. I don’t think I ever got around to saying it yesterday.”

Ushijima hasn’t had a lot of practice reading Oikawa, but he thinks Oikawa might look a little embarrassed. Apologies and gratitude are, in general, difficult things to express, however, so Ushijima understands.

“No problem,” Ushijima says, adjusting his hold on the ball he is still clutching. His fingers are sweaty.

Oikawa’s discomfiture melts into a hostile belligerence, which Ushijima is definitely more familiar with. “That doesn’t mean we’re good,” Oikawa says, eyes narrow, “you always make me look like the bad guy, Ushiwaka, but I’m not unreasonable. I have _actual_ _legitimate_ reasons for not setting for you, so there.”

He sounds so much like a petulant little kid that Ushijima has to bite back a laugh. Instead, he nods, and says, “I’m sure,” gravely, with a straight face.

Oikawa doesn’t look fooled. He tilts his head, levels Ushijima with a look that would be intimidating if Oikawa did not have to look up at him.

“You’ve got some nerve, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa breathes in, mouth thin, and abruptly, he turns around, casts Ushijima a look over his shoulder. “Well, come on,” he says, “I’ll show you. You have a laptop, don’t you? Lead the way.”

 

Lead the way, he’d said – but he keeps pace with Ushijima the whole time, and Ushijima has the inkling he knows exactly where they’re going. It is a foreboding feeling, knowing that Oikawa knows where his dorm room is. Current events notwithstanding, Ushijima wonders how long it would have been before Oikawa’s war front advanced to Ushijima’s bedroom.

Ushijima can’t help but mutter a little prayer under his breath while unlocking the front door. He hopes this does not come back to haunt him. His roommate, Ushijima notes, strangely relieved, is nowhere to be seen.

“Your unit is bigger than mine,” Oikawa announces, when he has followed Ushijima into the kitchen and is watching him pour juice into two glasses. There is an accusatory note in his voice, as if Ushijima had arranged it that way on purpose. Ushijima hands him one of the drinks – just because Oikawa probably won’t appreciate the gesture is no reason for Ushijima to be a bad host –

“I am sure you can take it up with the housing department,” Ushijima says, blandly, “maybe you can arrange for a switch.”

Oikawa sips his juice and says, thoughtfully, “maybe I will.”

Ushijima wonders if he is joking. It’s hard to tell, with Oikawa. “I will get my laptop, then,” Ushijima says, before the resulting silence can get awkward – for the second time today. “You can wait in the living room.”

Evidently, Oikawa does not want to wait in the living room, because he trails Ushijima down the hall, and shoots Ushijima a betrayed look when Ushijima  asks him why.

“What do you mean, _why_ , Ushiwaka-chan? Are you hiding a decomposing body under your bed?”

Oikawa talks in confusing non-sequiturs, most of the time. Ushijima is the last person to back down from a challenge, but he always feels completely out of his depth whenever he is around Oikawa. It has something to do with the feeling that Oikawa is constantly laughing at him, behind his smooth facade of exaggerated grievances and sharp rejoinders.

Ushijima pushes the bedroom door open. His roommate’s side of the room is an absolute mess, as usual, contrasting with Ushijima’s smoothed-down covers and perfectly plump pillow. His walls are bare, too – he left his posters in his room back home, and hasn’t gotten around to putting up anything new.

Oikawa flops onto Ushijima’s bed without so much as an invitation. Ushijima busies himself with retrieving his laptop from the closet.

“Wow, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa says. He is sitting up on Ushijima’s mattress, at the foot of the bed, thumbing through Ushijima’s book shelf. “I didn’t know you had interests outside of volleyball.” He pulls out Ushijima’s copy of _The Prisoner of Azakaban_ , looks from the dog-eared cover to Ushijima’s face. There is an open curiosity on his own face, along with the familiar amusement lurking at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Ushijima clears his throat, sets his laptop down on the bed. He finds he is a little irritated, instead of the gratification he’d expected to feel, having surprised Oikawa at last. “You’ve got a lot of opinions about me,” he says, sitting on the floor by the bed and turning the computer on, “what were you expecting?”

Oikawa glances down at him from his seat on the bed. “I don’t know,” he says, and shrugs, “honestly? A life-size poster of my face, maybe?”

“Oh, that,” Ushijima says, evenly, “it’s on the inside of the closet.”

Oikawa stares at him. “Ushiwaka-chan,” he says, slowly, “did you just make a joke?”

“I can hardly believe it myself,” Ushijima says, and pointedly does not think of the poster he does have, in his room back home, taped to the inside of his closet door. To be fair, it isn’t actually a life-sized photograph of Oikawa’s face, but one of the two of them, after their last ever high school match. Oikawa is frowning – he’d lost, after all – and Ushijima never smiles for photos, so it isn’t a very cheery picture, but it’s got them both in the same frame –

“You’re so weird, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa sticks his memory stick into the USB port on Ushijima’s computer and scrolls through the file explorer till he finds what he’s looking for.

A tinny rush of noise starts up from the computer’s speakers as the video – edited to show two clips, side by side – starts up, panning down two different, but similarly crowded, stadiums.

Oikawa taps the image on the right. “This is the junior high Spring Preliminary in 2010,” he says, “and this,” he gestures at the left image with exaggerated aplomb, “is Shiratorizawa’s match against Date Tech last year. I know it’s going to be hard to keep your eyes off of yourself,” he shoots Ushijima a supercilious grin, “but I want you to watch the player in jersey 10.”

 _Shirabu_. A sudden sinking feeling – like a whirlpool – opens up in Ushjima’s stomach. He knows, without being told, what Oikawa is trying to show him, and he doesn’t want to watch. Since the unfortunate outcome of the match against Karasuno – Ushijima still cannot believe Shiratorizawa lost, sometimes – Ushijima has thought, on more than one occasion, if his team would have won if their style had not centered around him as much as it did – if it allowed other players (Tendou, Shirabu, Ohira, _Goshiki_ ) to shine more often – if it had more teamwork –

The Shirabu in junior high is almost unrecognizable from the Shirabu that set for Ushijima – more brazen, more ferocious, more risky – technique more in line with his (hotheaded, impulsive) personality.

“It was Shirabu’s choice to change the way he played,” Ushijima hears himself say, voice strange, tight, defensive, to his own ears – and it’s true. Ushijima did not ask Shirabu to change. Shirabu made that choice on his own. It isn’t Ushijima’s fault, nothing he has to blame himself for.

Through the blur that seems to have set over his eyes, like a camera gone out of focus, Ushijima can make out Oikawa’s serious, unsmiling face – expression not unlike the way he is on court, once the starting whistle has been blown. Oikawa looks at Ushijima as if Ushijima is standing across from him on the field, on the other side of the net, as if he is an executioner and Ushijima is about to be sentenced to death.

Not for the first time, Ushijima wonders what it is about Oikawa that gives him this power over Ushijima, unlike anybody else Ushijima knows.

“Oh?” Oikawa says, inclining his head to the side, eyes sharp, piercing, “would you have allowed him to set for you if he hadn’t?”

“Maybe not, then,” Ushijima says, quietly, and takes a deep breath, “but now – ”

Oikawa shakes his head, makes an exasperated sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s not that simple, okay,” he says, tersely, and swings his legs off the side of the bed, pulling his memory stick from the USB port as he goes.   

***

In the aftermath of their – conversation does not feel like the right word; it was so one-sided – Ushijima thinks he might not be surprised if their temporary truce were to dissolve. He looks forward to Sunday practice, then, with a vague sense of being in a waking dream - like there is a storm brewing on the horizon.

However – practice comes and goes, and his locker remains conspicuously untouched, his jersey unmarred.  Ushijima is extra careful with the soap in the bathroom, in case it has been coated with nail polish again, but that comes up clean, too.

The rest of the team files slowly out of the gym, leaving Ushijima to debate taking a shower and leaving or making up the three hours of extra practice he’d missed the day before.

Extra practice wins – Ushijima’s fastidious approach to volleyball is practically unmatched (Oikawa, of course, is the strongest contender) – and so Ushijima returns to the court with a fresh towel and another bottle of water.

A short, mirthless laugh interrupts him a while later, breaking his focus. He is not surprised to see Oikawa standing behind him when he turns around. It is later than Ushijima realized – he can see the dim late afternoon sunshine filtering in through the gym’s large, square windows, the light soft, muted.

“It’s no wonder I never beat you, really,” Oikawa sounds rueful, “you practice harder than anyone I know.”

Ushijima swallows against the constriction in his throat. “Not as hard as you,” he says.

Oikawa shakes his head, rakes his fingers through his hair. He walks forward, and for a moment, Ushijima thinks, his heart leaping into his throat –

But then he steps across the dividing line, across the net, and positions himself to receive, knees bent, elbows locked, weight poised on the balls of his feet.

“Come on, then, _Miracle Boy Wakatoshi_ ,” Oikawa taunts, eyebrow arched, smile tight, the nickname strange, foreign, coming from his mouth, “let’s see you get past me.”

***

Tendou says, “aw, that’s not fair; I trademarked that nickname, you know,” when Ushijima tells him, but he doesn’t sound upset in the slightest, and follows up with a, “I’m glad to know you’re making friends, Wakatoshi,” as if he’s Ushijima’s mother or something.

Ushijima says, “thank you for your misplaced concern, Tendou,” and Tendou laughs.

When he has caught his breath, Tendou says, “So, who won?”

Thinking back, Ushijima realizes he hadn’t kept count. He can remember the rush of adrenaline – the squeak of sneakers on wood, the hollow thud of the ball when it landed on the ground, the sound of their breathing – his and Oikawa’s – coming in short, sharp gasps, his heartbeat, pulsing in his ears.

“It was a draw,” he decides.

Afterward, Tendou is silent for several long moments. “Wow,” he says, finally, voice uncharacteristically soft, “you’re growing up, Wakatoshi,” and then he bursts out laughing again, effectively ruining the moment.

***

The first years sit out the first official match of the season. There will be plenty of chances for them later, the coach assures them, and he makes good on his promise a week later, arranging for a practice match with Tsukuba University’s team. Ushijima thinks this might be it – at last, his chance to hit one of Oikawa’s tosses – but the coach uses one of the other setters for the first half of the match, and swaps Ushijima out for Konoha when he finally sends Oikawa in.

Ushijima surprises himself by being less disappointed than he might have been, once upon a time. This might have to do with the (unplanned, semi-regular) extra practice sessions that have become a part of the routine Ushijima has settled into.

In accordance with the unspoken terms of their (tentative) truce, it is Oikawa who usually joins Ushijima, instead of the other way around. They don’t always play each other. Sometimes, Oikawa works through his own drills and Ushijima does his, with no words exchanged, in oddly comfortable silence.

He hadn’t thought silences – or anything, really – could get comfortable, around Oikawa. Miracles do happen, it seems. Oikawa is capable of growing up. Maybe Ushijima can learn to let go.  

 

***

One Saturday two months into term, the volleyball club seniors throw the new members a welcome party. A rather belated welcome party, in Ushijima’s opinion, but apparently it is a school tradition. Having learned his lesson the first time around, Ushijima stays far away from the alcohol. Oikawa has no such reservations, however, and so, before the night is up, Ushijima – he is unsure how exactly he came to be Oikawa’s designated babysitter, and certain he is doing a poor job of filling Iwaizumi Hajime’s shoes – is forced to escort him back to his room.

“Who’s to say aliens _don’t_ exist,” Oikawa says, almost directly into Ushijima’s ear, sounding far too sober for someone who is - apparently - incapable of walking without support. When Ushijima tried to make him, he'd slumped on the ground and would not move. “It’s a wide, wide world out there – isn’t it arrogance to presume we are the only sentient beings in an infinite universe?”

It is a cool spring night, heavy with the promise of rain, and Ushijima, having resigned himself to his fate, is half-dragging, half-carrying Oikawa across the grounds to his residence hall, arm wrapped securely around Oikawa’s back. Oikawa is tipsy and uncoordinated, a warm weight leaning heavily into Ushijima’s side.  

“I haven’t thought about it,” Ushijima says, honestly, pausing to push the building’s door open. He takes a look at the narrow, precarious-looking stairwell and turns for the elevators. “Does it make a difference, either way?”

Oikawa looks scandalized, like Ushijima has suggested the earth is the center of the solar system. His face is waxy-pale in the elevator’s (terrible) lighting. “I can’t believe you would say that, Ushiwaka-chan. What next? Are you going to tell me the Star Trek reboot is better than the original?”

The elevator dings as it arrives at Oikawa’s floor. Ushijima says, “I haven’t seen either,” as he is maneuvering Oikawa out of the elevator and into the darkened hallway, and quickly adds, “but I’ve watched Star Wars.”

Oikawa tips his head back to look Ushijima in the eye, half-smiling. “Oh? Prequels or originals?”

Ushijima’s seen both, but that isn’t what Oikawa is asking. “That’s a tired debate,” he says, with dignity, and ducks his head when Oikawa’s smile turns genuine. Outside his room, Oikawa reaches into his pocket and hands Ushijima his keys, then leans against the wall while Ushijima finds the keyhole in the dim half-light of the corridor. The lock opens with a loud click, and the door swings open.

Inside, it is still, quiet. Ushijima feels along the wall for the light-switch and flips it. The overhead lights flicker, once, twice, and finally turn on. Contrary to what he had been led to believe, the unit isn’t smaller than Ushijima’s – more cluttered, definitely, and the floor plan is different, but objectively, the living spaces are the same size.

“Thanks for walking me, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa says, meeting Ushijima’s eyes from underneath his lashes. He is still smiling – but it is softer, now _, less shit-eating grin_ and more _actual fond._ The transformation makes Ushijima nervous – Oikawa is so _close_ , and Ushijima can smell his cologne underneath the alcohol, and underneath that, deeper still, the heady scent of sweat –

It isn’t easy to ignore, when he is this close, how beautiful Oikawa is.

Ushijima nods, breaks eye contact. “No problem,” he says, thickly, “I – should go.”

He thinks he might have seen disappointment flicker in Oikawa’s eyes – but it lasts only a moment, so briefly that Ushijima is sure he must have imagined it – projected his own feelings onto Oikawa’s face.

 “Of course,” Oikawa says, easily, “see you around, Ushiwaka-chan.”

***

The breakthrough occurs on a Friday, after practice.

It is late in the afternoon – Ushijima is going through his daily allotment of a hundred-and-fifty jump serves, and has, as usual, lost track of time, tuning out the sounds of the world around him. There isn’t much to tune out, though – the gym emptied a while ago, leaving Ushijima alone. The quiet amplifies the noise Ushijima makes: the screech of his sneakers, the thud of the ball, the sound of his breathing, settles around him like fog on a mountaintop, cocooning Ushijima – and his volleyball – within.

Abruptly – “Hey, Ushiwaka-chan,” and Ushijima is brought to the present – to the sun, setting past the windows, evening sunrays clinging to the walls and lighting Oikawa’s hair a burnished gold, to the ball he is holding –

“Catch,” Oikawa says, and tosses the ball – up, up, up – a high, clean toss with a beautiful arc – the way Ushijima likes best –

It slams onto the floor across the net as if it were hammered onto the ground, the sound echoing in the empty gymnasium. Ushijima’s palm stings with the brunt of the impact. He thinks he might’ve stopped breathing, or else his heart has stopped, expanded to fill the cavity of his chest, past breaking point, and exploded, like a planet, hit by the _Death Star's_ laser beam.

Oikawa gives a little half bow, when Ushijima looks over at him – dips his head and crosses his arms, wearing an expression that is simultaneously reverent and subdued, just like Ushijima feels –

“Nice kill,” he says, and his voice cracks a little, and he shrugs, conceding defeat, shoulders lifting and dropping, elbows still locked across his chest. Ushijima can hear the unspoken _if I had been on a team with you, would I have gone to nationals, too_? and it occurs to him that they’ve come full circle, that the journey is over at last, and now that they’ve reached the bottom, there’s nowhere else to go but up –

Pride be damned, Ushijima thinks, and he crosses the floor over to where Oikawa is standing and pulls him into a hug, lifting him clear off the ground. Oikawa gives a little shriek of surprise, hands bracing instinctively on Ushijima’s shoulders, eyes going wide, looking down into Ushijima’s face.

“Oh my God, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa’s breath fans across Ushijima’s cheekbones, hot, damp, “if you drop me – ”

“You’re not asking to be let down?” the words leave Ushijima’s mouth before he’s quite thought them through.

“Well, I don’t know,” Oikawa huffs, fingers tightening, digging almost painfully into Ushijima’s scapulae, “aren’t you going to, eventually?”

He says it so matter-of-factly Ushijima can’t help but laugh. Oikawa looks taken aback, then embarrassed, and then irritated, eyebrows knitting together, lips thinning.

“Shut up, Ushiwaka-chan,” he breathes. His eyes flutter shut, and he dips his head to press his mouth – soft, warm – against Ushijima’s.

Ushijima freezes, nearly drops him in surprise, and, belatedly, thinks to kiss him back – and feels Oikawa relax. He sighs – the tension seeps out of his shoulders and he sags into Ushijima, arms winding around Ushijima’s neck, hands sliding into Ushijima’s hair, palms hot at Ushijima’s nape. He pulls Ushijima’s lower lip between his teeth and Ushijima sinks to the ground, knees buckling, Oikawa coming to rest in his lap, thumbs pressing indents over Oikawa’s hips.  

Oikawa kisses like he plays volleyball – carefully, probingly, with his entire body. He tastes like salt and waxy, unflavored lip balm, smells like clean sweat and cedar. He presses a hand flat against Ushijima’s chest, pushes him to lie on the ground, straddles his waist. Ushijima skims his hands along Oikawa’s back, pushes his fingers into Oikawa’s sweat-damp hair, pulls away from Oikawa’s mouth to nose at Oikawa’s jaw, gently scrapes his teeth along Oikawa’s throat. Oikawa gasps, a low, choked sound, and drops his forehead against Ushijima’s shoulder. Ushijima hears him say, “I knew you’d be ridiculously easy to love,” hoarsely, into the fabric of Ushijima’s t-shirt, so quiet Ushijima almost misses it.  His mind fills with a smoky haze, molten heat pooling low in his belly.

 

Is there ever an appropriate time to say _I’ve loved you since middle school and you upended your banana milkshake over my head?_ Ushijima’s not sure – but he knows there’s no time like the present to take the leap.

After all, it’s a long, slow path down.

***

Oikawa’s black notebook makes a reappearance after Sunday’s practice. He goes to Konoha, first, and then Kuroo – and afterward comes to sit by Ushijima, leans into Ushijima’s side, and makes a show of opening the notebook to a blank page and writing _Ushiwaka-chan_ at the top.  

“So, Ace-sama,” Oikawa says, brilliant brown eyes sparkling, “what suggestions do you have for the improvement of your toss?”

He is smiling when he says this – a genuine, dazzling smile that dimples his cheeks and twists Ushijima’s stomach into knots – like turbulence, in the moment before take-off. Ushijima wonders if he will ever get used to it, even with long-term exposure. He doesn’t think he’ll mind if he doesn’t.

“I don’t have any,” he says, “it’s already perfect.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Oikawa's comment on Ushijima's eyes is a pastiche of one of my favorite scenes from 10 Things I Hate About You (i.e. one of my fave movies of all time; if you haven't seen it, you should!!)
> 
> this was initially supposed to be a single oneshot, but as i am terrible with time management and often bite off more than i can chew, it ended up being a two-shot (with very little in common with my initial vision for the story /sobs).
> 
> if you have come this far - i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!


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